


Between Day and Night (An Everlasting Twilight)

by SuikaShoujo



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, I'm projecting a lot of my own anxiety issues onto this poor boy, Implied Sexual Content, It's about Zelos guys, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, dealing with grief, very mild emeto in chapter 3, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuikaShoujo/pseuds/SuikaShoujo
Summary: Zelos always believed his wings suited him. Caught somewhere between a sunny childhood and an unseeable, uncertain future as an adult, all he could do was glow as brilliantly as he could while the sun set behind him.A series of short stories detailing the years between when Zelos loses his family, and when he finds a new one.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Coming In From the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've had in the back of my head for a while now, but finally decided to go through with when I realized that while I've written several fics about Zelos and his relationship with Lloyd, there's a whole lot more to him than that. Then it hit me how few Zelos-centric stories there are that cover the decade or so between the backstory he gives in canon, and canon itself. That's a ton of free real estate, and it feels like a waste not to claim it, so that's exactly what I'm going to do.
> 
> I'm taking inspiration from a lot of places, including conversations in-game that are never expanded upon, the EX chapter in the ToS manga, fic from other authors, and in some ways, my own personal experiences. I don't anticipate too much deviation from canon, but to be fair, there's not a whole lot of canon to deviate from where this stuff is concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some art from [Flamb3rge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamb3rge) based on this chapter! There should be one for every chapter going forward, so make sure to give them a look.
> 
> https://flamb3rge.tumblr.com/post/618058196846821376/he-never-asks-their-names-after-being-called

By Zelos's count, it's been exactly one week and four days since he's felt anything other than complete emptiness.

The grandiose ballroom he used to be so familiar with manages to be both large enough to be disorienting, and cramped enough that he thinks he might suffocate if he's stuck there for another moment. Or maybe it's the deep red tie the maids had absolutely  _ insisted _ he wear, even though Zelos would have strongly preferred  _ any  _ other color. Wasn't it enough that he had to look into the mirror each morning and remind himself that, no, his hair wasn't stained with the blood of his own family member? Or was this constant tightness in his chest just another step in his punishment for ever being born?

Maybe it was his mother's lifeless corpse, trapping him beneath her weight long after being dragged off of him and buried.

Zelos thinks he might be sick.

Desperately, he scans the room for any possible escape routes. He  _ cannot _ spend another second drowning in the scent of a single perfume, a recent trend among the noble women of Meltokio-- one his mother had not been immune to, Zelos knows, just as he knows how easily it can be overpowered by the iron stench of blood. He can't spend the rest of his night convinced that he's seeing a ghost every time a woman with long blonde hair comes into his field of vision. He  _ can't-- _

There isn't a single clear path out of the ballroom. Zelos knows this. He knows this, but suddenly, it stops mattering. His feet take a few shaky steps forward, and before his mind can even register that much, he's already broken into a run, putting all of his faith into the faint possibility of  _ anywhere else  _ being better than where he is right now.

And if that's the case, then he's never going to know, because he only makes it halfway across the room before he hears a chorus of voices calling attention to The Chosen One, their hushed whispers spreading like a disease through the crowd surrounding him. He is acutely aware of every single pair of eyes burning holes into his skin, tearing him apart, examining him for any weak points they can use to their advantage. He freezes. Within moments, a hand is on his shoulder, and he has to use every last ounce of his self-control not to flinch, not to rub at the sleeve of his suit jacket in the vain, irrational hope of getting the blood off before it stains. Instead, he takes that anxiety and channels it into  _ not screwing this up and making things worse. _

He turns around. He smiles.

He doesn't recognize the woman staring down at him.

He doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

"Ah, Chosen One," she grins, a smile that's all teeth yet isn't wide enough to reach her eyes. Zelos wonders if she wants to be here any more than he does. He doubts it. "What a pleasure to see you here tonight." He knows what her next words will be before they come out, they're the same ones he's already heard repeated by at least fifty other guests in the past hour. "It really is such a shame about Lady Mylene. You must be absolutely  _ devastated." _

Zelos knows that in most situations, people are happiest when you agree with them. That the easiest way to end a conversation is to nod, smile, and tell them how right they are. He also knows that the rest of the time, the truth is an inconvenience-- the  _ last  _ thing they want.

He mirrors her strained smile.

"I appreciate your concern, madam, but I'm doing much better now." It's a lie. It's not even a  _ good  _ lie. Zelos is almost positive the woman can see the way the corners of his lips twitch, can  _ hear _ the way his voice is pitched just a bit too high to come off as fully genuine.

Deep down, he wonders if he actually wants her to call him out on it.

Of course, she doesn't.

Instead, she nods. "Yes, I'm sure it's a relief, knowing that they caught the filthy half-elf that did it so quickly." Zelos feels bile rising in his throat, but refuses to let his smile waver for even a moment. He knows that the second he lets his guard down enough to share how he  _ really _ feels is the second he loses. He's only been playing this game for 12 years, less than half the time the woman he's up against has spent fine-tuning her skills. If he were a child raised under any other circumstances, he's sure she would have gotten him to break already, to give her a new story to gossip about over her daily afternoon tea.

But if there's one thing Zelos knows about himself, it's that he's not normal, and never has been. 

That no matter how much he prays to the Goddess, screams into his pillow at night, or wishes on stars, he never will be.

His back-and-forth with the older woman continues, but there quickly comes a point where Zelos stops actually  _ processing  _ any of it. He's already had identical conversations with an entire sea of other faceless nobles and their blatant insincerity. They might as well have been following a script: They are  _ so sorry  _ for The Chosen's loss. They  _ really hope  _ The Chosen is doing better. 

If The Chosen needs anything from them,  _ anything at all _ , then he shouldn't hesitate to reach out.

Sometimes, once they're done expressing exactly how  _ sorry  _ they are, they'll pull him in for a hug or a "comforting" pat on the shoulder. And as much as it makes his skin crawl, as cold as their hands feel even through his multiple layers of clothing, he lets them. He might even place a hand on their back in return, offering comfort that is every bit as sincere as what they are giving to him.

And then, if he's feeling especially generous, he'll ignore the flashes of self-satisfaction that cross their faces when he tells them he appreciates their offer, and will  _ absolutely  _ keep it in mind.

He never asks their names.

After being called "Chosen One" enough times, Zelos starts to wonder whether they even know  _ his. _

Not that it matters much. He doesn't recognize them now, and he sincerely doubts he'll remember them well enough to recognize them the next time he's "strongly encouraged" to show his face in public. It would be downright hypocritical for him to expect them to remember his name, when he purposely allows theirs to disappear into a part of his memories that he can't be bothered to access.

And it would be downright  _ naive  _ to believe his is a name worth remembering. He was born to be The Chosen, which means that all he needs to do is live as The Chosen until he eventually dies as The Chosen. The Chosen's birth was necessary,  _ welcome _ , even.  _ Zelos,  _ on the other hand, was a burden, one who had lost the right to be seen as himself the moment he led the woman who gave him life to her own destruction. After all,  _ Zelos  _ was never the one she hoped to protect. Everyone he had spoken to that night had said it themselves, how  _ brave _ and  _ kind  _ she was to give her own life for the sake of The Chosen One. 

Would she have been put on such a pedestal if Zelos, not the Chosen of Mana, had been the one to crawl out of her final, crushing embrace? 

He isn't sure how much more time he spends drifting through the endless sea of faceless nobles, or whether he has two more scripted conversations or two hundred. All he knows is that the sun has completely set by the time he makes it outside, the biting chill of a cold winter's night no worse than a calm spring breeze when compared with the icy water he feels running through his veins. Even as he stumbles back to the Wilder family mansion ( _ His  _ mansion, now), he can't seem to warm himself up. Even as he slams the door behind him, letting out a choked sob as he slides to the floor with his head in his hands, he still feels colder than he ever has before. The tears burning a thin trail down his cheeks are the only thing reminding him that his body hasn't been replaced by tightly-packed snow, only a single blast of magic away from crumbling into nothing.

Maybe, he thinks to himself, that would be for the best.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Is This All That I Came For?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit of exciting news for this fic: my good friend [Flamb3rge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamb3rge) has decided to do a painting for each chapter of this fic! I'm going to update Chapter 1's Notes with the link to that chapter's art as soon as I have this chapter up, but here's the link for Chapter 2's art: 
> 
> https://flamb3rge.tumblr.com/post/618950977378205696/between-day-and-night-an-everlasting-twilight-my
> 
> I'll be posting the links for these in the notes for each chapter going forward, so definitely be sure to check them out! Not only is the art just extremely well-done in general, it also complements the tone of the fic perfectly.

Another week passes before Zelos is willing to leave his room again. Sebastian, the maids, his tutors, priests from the church-- all of them knock on his door multiple times a day, imploring him at first to make another public appearance in an attempt to ease the citizens' concerns, but eventually reducing their requests to simple outings, like "Take a bath" or "Come to the garden for some fresh air (as if he  _ ever  _ wants to set foot on that bloodstained soil again for as long as he lives)."

  


Even then, he refuses. Finally, they begin leaving his meals at his door, allowing him to quickly come retrieve them when he is completely certain the hallway outside is empty. They're never even warm by the time he gets to them, let alone  _ hot _ , and he has a sneaking suspicion they cooled off long before they were even put on the tray. It should make him feel safe, knowing that the chances of the food being poisoned are next to none, but the lack of warmth in each bite of stew only serves to remind him of his new reality. 

  


When he's not drifting in and out of a restless sleep (which is rare-- even with the constant threat of nightmares, he simply doesn't have the energy to do anything else), he spends hours sitting in a chair next to his window, letting his thoughts wander as he stares down at the Noble Quarter's busy streets. Most of his memories of his mother involved her doing the exact same thing, and now he's starting to understand why. For the first time in a long time, he feels like they might have something in common after all, besides a cursed bloodline and shattered dreams.

  


Sometimes, the eerie silence of his bedroom is broken by whispers drifting in from the hallway, muffled by the heavy door but still easy to make out. Much of it is nothing more than mundane gossip about romantic trysts or backstabbing nobles, and Zelos doesn't find it hard to tune it all out. But as days pass without Zelos ever showing his face, he starts hearing rumors he can't ignore. They're mostly rumors about him and his disappearance from the public eye, which is nothing new, but before long, he starts hearing another name:  _ Lady Seles. _

  


He doesn't piece the entire situation together right away, but eventually, he has a basic understanding of it all. She's being taken away. She's taking on the punishment for her mother's crime, one which should have already been forgiven with her immediate execution. It's a life sentence. Preparations are already underway.

  


He's still grieving the loss of a parent, and now they're ripping away the only family he still has, for a crime she played no part in.

  


The next time Sebastian comes knocking on his door, he opens it immediately, ignoring the look of surprise on his butler's face.

  


"I want to see Seles." It's not a request. He stares coldly into Sebastian's eyes, daring him to speak against the boy he serves. Sebastian shifts uncomfortably, and he opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times before he speaks, clearly struggling with how to handle the sudden confrontation.

  


"I am… afraid that is not currently possible, Lord Zelos. If you simply wish to speak with someone, however, there are several members of the church who--"

  


"Don't change the subject. You know where she is, don't you? I need to talk to  _ her _ , Sebastian." 

  


Zelos doesn't allow his gaze to waver for even a moment, even when Sebastian tries to break eye contact, looking more uneasy with each passing second. Even if Zelos hadn't already overheard the truth, he would have found his reactions too suspicious to ignore. The older man clearly knows everything about the situation, and the longer he keeps his mouth shut, the more it feels like a dagger is being twisted into Zelos's chest. Why is it that after several years of being expected to act twice his age, following every rule and restriction placed on him while being fed information he couldn't fully understand, he's only  _ now  _ being treated like a child? 

  


Don't they trust him enough to let him know the truth?

  


"...Please." Zelos speaks again after a long, awkward pause, allowing his anger to fade away in favor of something more vulnerable. If he couldn't reach his butler as an authority figure, then as much as it hurts his pride to do so, his only remaining option is to speak to him as the person he really is: a terrified young boy. "I need to see her." He swallows. "She's… she's the only family I have left."

  


Another long pause follows, and finally, Sebastian starts to look like he might relent. Zelos is practically shaking, digging his nails into his palms in his attempts to stay somewhat calm-- he's willing to sacrifice  _ some _ of his dignity for Seles's sake, but he draws the line at shedding tears for it.

  


At last, Sebastian lets out a sigh, glancing over his shoulder before continuing. He tells Zelos everything he's already overheard, and Zelos pretends to be shocked by the information (which isn't hard, because even now he's struggling to understand the reasoning behind such a cruel decision, and he is  _ angry _ ). He does gain some important new information from Sebastian's explanation, however, like the place Seles is being held, and that she only arrived there the previous evening. 

  


Sebastian has only barely finished speaking when Zelos turns and retreats back into his room with a glint of determination in his eyes. "Make preparations to leave right away. I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

  


"L-Lord Zelos, with all due respect, I hardly think that's-"

  


" _ That's an order. _ " There is no room for argument in his tone. He's backed his servant into a corner, and while a small part of him feels bad about it, his desperation easily wins out. 

  


Twenty minutes later, he's in the sky. He chooses to believe that the churning in his stomach is only motion sickness from the Rheaird, and not his anxiety. 

  


He ignores the fact that he's never gotten motion sickness in his life.

  


\------------------

  


Under any other circumstances, Zelos's first impression of the abbey would have been  _ beautiful. _ The grass is greener than anything growing in Meltokio could ever hope to be, and the sounds of ocean waves crashing over the shore play in perfect harmony with the cries of the seagulls. the building itself is no less impressive, only marginally smaller than the mansion he called home. 

  


But when he considers the reality of the situation, he can't see it as anything other than a prison, an impenetrable fortress surrounded by a moat that stretches on for miles. 

  


Doing his best to ignore the hollow pit in his stomach, Zelos approaches the front door and grasps the doorknob with violently trembling hands. He's somewhat surprised to see it unlocked given that he is, in the eyes of the church, entering the home of a convicted criminal, but he pays it little mind as he steps inside. He doesn't see anyone near the entrance, so he draws in a deep, shaky breath and calls out. "Seles?"  _ Silence.  _ "Seles, you're here, right? It's me, Zelos. I came to vi--"

  


"Chosen One?" The voice is not the one he wants to hear, but he does give a small sigh of relief at receiving any response at all. An older man dressed in a butler uniform steps into the entryway. It takes a moment, but Zelos eventually recognizes him as one of the servants from Seles's old residence. "I was… unaware that you would be making an appearance."  _ Or that you would even know to come here _ , his frown seems to add, though he doesn't voice it. Zelos notices that Sebastian has caught up and is standing right behind him when Seles's butler shoots him a glance, searching for an explanation. Sebastian clears his throat and diverts his gaze almost immediately.

  


"Yes, I do apologize for the inconvenience. The young master was incredibly insistent on visiting with Lady Seles as soon as possible, you see."

  


"Just a few minutes is enough," Zelos quickly adds when the man in front of him deepens his frown. "I'll leave as soon as I'm done."

  


A long, uncomfortable moment of silence passes as Seles's butler weighs his options. Finally, he turns around with a long sigh. "I will allow it, but please do keep your visit brief. The past several days have been fairly…  _ exhausting  _ for her, you see, and it would be best for her to avoid too much excitement until she is settled."

  


_ That makes two of us,  _ Zelos thinks bitterly, but he nods and follows the butler's lead further inside. The tension is palpable, and only grows thicker the longer they walk in complete silence. Zelos wants to say something, his impatience getting the better of him as he begins to wonder how his sister will feel when she sees his face. Will she be happy that he was worried about her? Or will she be angry, face to face with the person indirectly responsible for all the ways her life has just been ruined?

  


Zelos swallows hard and digs his nails into his palm again, almost drawing blood this time, desperate to focus on anything other than the waves of panic spreading through his body with each beat of his racing heart. For the first time, just when it is too late for him to turn back, he wonders if his visit was a mistake. Had the adults all been right to hide everything from him? 

  


Had they been shielding him from a harsh reality where Seles, the only person in the world who still shared even  _ half _ of his blood, had come to despise him?

  


Did Seles wish he had never been born, too?

  


Completely wrapped up in  _ what-ifs _ and  _ worst-case scenarios,  _ Zelos almost doesn't notice when the man he's following comes to a stop in front of a nondescript, heavy wooden door. He registers three sharp knocks, but doesn't fully return to reality until a small, familiar voice comes through the door.

  


"Tokunaga? Is something the matter?” There is a slight hoarseness to her voice, and Zelos wonders if she has been crying recently. He feels another twinge of guilt at this.

  


“Seles?” Zelos speaks up before her butler (who, as Zelos files away in the back of his mind, is apparently named Tokunaga) can respond. “It’s me, Zelos. I-I came to visit you.”

  


There’s a brief pause. “...Brother?” her voice suddenly seems even more fragile than it had a moment ago. “You really came all this way?”

  


“I heard about what happened,” he says. “I-- Seles, I’m… I’m sorry.” He nearly chokes on the words, not because he doesn’t mean them, but because standing in this hallway and hearing his half-sister’s voice makes everything feel  _ real _ , in a way it hadn’t when he first heard the news. He wants to say more, to properly communicate how unfair he thinks the whole situation is, but any thoughts he has are immediately lost in a sea of guilt and anxiety, and in the end, all he can do is apologize. He rests a hand against the door and lowers his gaze to his feet, unconsciously avoiding eye contact that would have been impossible in the first place.

There’s another long, uncomfortable pause between them, and Zelos is beginning to panic. He won’t be surprised if she’s angry with him, he  _ expects _ it, even, but he wishes that she would come out and say it, just so that he doesn’t have to keep wondering.

  


To keep hoping, somewhere deep down, that he’s mistaken.

  


“...Why are you apologizing?” she finally says, her emotions completely unreadable from her voice alone. “Do you feel sorry for me? Is that it?”

  


“That’s not it at all!” Zelos  _ knows  _ pity, and he  _ despises  _ it with every fiber of his being. “I just--”

  


“Then I don’t understand,” Seles says, cutting Zelos off before he can find a proper justification. “This wasn’t your decision, so again, why are you apologizing?”

  


“I--” Zelos grits his teeth. He had been fully expecting Seles to react with anger, and he had been prepared for that. But he can’t tell how she’s feeling at all right now, and he’s no longer sure how to proceed. “They told you, right? About what happened?”

  


“Of  _ course _ I know what happened. My mother committed a crime, and paid with her life.” Her words are completely matter-of-fact, but her voice is beginning to tremble, ever so slightly. “And now I’m all alone. Father already died, and now Mother is gone, too. I don’t have anyone left.”

  


_ What about me?  _ Zelos wants to say, but he’s so taken aback by the raw grief in his sister’s words that all he can do is lower his head further. “Seles, I-”

  


“If all you’re going to do is apologize, then I don’t want to hear it.” 

  


“But--”  _ You could have been the Chosen. If I wasn’t here, if Mother hadn’t taken my place, you could have had a better life than this. If I had died instead. _

  


_ If I had never been born in the first place. _

  


“I think you should leave,  _ Chosen One.”  _ Seles’s voice has stopped shaking, but the cold certainty that replaces it only makes Zelos feel worse. Seles is no longer speaking to someone who shares half of the same flesh and blood, but to  _ The Chosen _ . Once again,  _ Zelos  _ ceases to exist, and his title is left in his place. 

  


It’s not the day his father takes his own life or the day his mother is turned into red snow that Zelos realizes he has no family left. 

  


It is at that exact moment, in that darkened hallway, when Seles speaks to him through a wall. 

  


“...Alright.” Zelos drops his hand from the door, and takes a step back. “I’m… I’m glad I was able to talk to you again, Seles. I’ll try to come back sometime soon, alright?” Even Zelos is unsure of how true that statement is, but if nothing else, he wants the possibility to exist that, one day, he will be able to face his sister again. Seles doesn’t respond, and before long, Sebastian has a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him towards the exit. 

  


Just before he steps outside, however, Zelos has an idea. He isn’t sure whether it’s a  _ good  _ one or not, but he’s desperate enough to keep things from ending here that he’s willing to try anything. He stops walking abruptly and sticks his hand into his pocket, rummaging around until he finds the smooth, round gem he’s searching for. He pulls it out and turns to face Tokunaga, who has come to see his guests off. 

  


“Can you do me a favor and give this to Seles?” he says. Tokunaga recognizes the crystal immediately, and a look of unease crosses his face. 

  


“Chosen One, while I understand that you are concerned for Lady Seles, that is  _ far  _ too valuable to simply leave in a place like this.”

  


Zelos shakes his head. “No one else is going to visit this place, right? If anything, it’s  _ safer  _ here than it is back in Meltokio.” He smiles softly, and looks down at his hand. “Tell her it’s a lucky charm. A promise that I’ll come back when she’s ready to see me.” Zelos doesn’t know whether that day will come in a week, or a year, or  _ ever _ , but no matter how small of a chance there is that he’ll be forgiven, he doesn’t want to let go of it. Not yet. Even if Seles only sees him as the Chosen, even if she only has harsh words left for him, he doesn’t want her to think that he’s abandoning her. Even if every word she speaks to him for the rest of their lives is laced with hatred and resentment, he wants her to know that he’s willing to hear them.

  


It’s the least he can do, both as the Chosen, and, he wants to believe, as her half-brother.


	3. Woke From Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork for chapter 3: https://flamb3rge.tumblr.com/post/620675677895671808/art-for-chapter-3-of-idiotchosens-fic-between

Little by little, as the snow melts and the bushes in the Wilder mansion's garden begin to light up with blood-red roses, Zelos finds his life returning to normal-- or at least, a close enough approximation of it that Sebastian no longer has to plead with him just to get some fresh air. He returns to his daily intensive lessons from private tutors about the Church of Martel's long, rich history and legacy (which he will one day become a part of, as he is constantly reminded by priests whose eyes shine with pride), he once again acts as a constant fixture at the most elite dinner parties in the city, and perhaps most importantly, he regains the ability to fake a convincing smile through every last minute of it.

Spring gives way to a blisteringly hot summer, the hottest Meltokio has seen in over a decade. Zelos wonders if every season will be like this from now on, if they will continue to grow more extreme every year until the world either burns to a crisp or freezes over entirely. (He quickly realizes he would much prefer the former.) His daily meetings with the Pope and other officials from the church all blend together in a haze of sweat dripping down his forehead and thoughts that drift anywhere except the topic at hand. As days pass by, to his relief, he finds them settling on thoughts of that winter's tragedies less and less. He doesn't  _ forget _ , though, not at all. He still winces every time he passes by the giant portrait of his mother in the main hall, and he still functions on as little sleep as possible so he isn't faced with dreams of bloodstained snow. But it does become easier to distract himself.

_ He  _ still isn’t normal, but his daily life is as close to it as he can get, so he counts it as a small victory.

Occasionally, when his bouts of insomnia keep him lying awake and staring at the high ceiling in his bedroom, his thoughts wander back to Seles. Seles, who hasn’t contacted him at all in the months since their encounter at the abbey, or had the chance to read the steadily-growing stack of letters that Zelos keeps writing but can’t bring himself to send. Seles, who he never  _ really  _ stops worrying about, who now only appears in his memories as an ice-cold voice from behind a wall and a permanent, resigned scowl. She had always been frail at the best of times, and while a part of him desperately wants to confirm that she’s still safe and well-taken care of in isolation, the ever-present voice of realism in his head tells him that he shouldn’t ask. That as long as Seles wants to pretend they aren’t a family, he doesn’t need to act, or even  _ think _ , like her well-being is any concern of his.

Zelos obeys the voice, but he never quite learns to  _ agree  _ with it.

Gradually, the days start getting shorter, and the nights start getting colder. The roses in the garden drop off one by one, and soon a nearly overwhelming amount of leaves and petals settle in piles on the ground, despite the constant efforts by the mansion's gardeners to clear them away. Zelos considers telling them not to bother, explaining that trying to keep such a haunted space clean is only a waste of their time, but ultimately allows them to do as they please. Better to let them feel useful, especially when his reasons for speaking up would only concern them.

He's fine now. He doesn't need their pitying stares, or their responses laced with sympathy. More than anything, he needs them to stop walking on eggshells around him, as though he's made of glass that could shatter at any moment. He's cracked, sure, but he's made it this far without breaking, and he has no intentions of letting it happen at all after everything he's been through.

He's  _ fine. _

He repeats this to himself every time that he wakes up with his mother's blood dripping down his face and her voice ringing in his ears.

He never lets go of the hope that one day, he'll truly believe it.

The sky continues to darken earlier and earlier, until Zelos is walking home from his daily lessons from the priests with only the moon and a few streetlights to guide his way. Zelos has never been  _ afraid _ of the dark, so to speak, but it does make his heartbeat speed up just a bit when he hears the wind rustling in a bush behind him, or the uneven footsteps of a drunken noble stumbling to or from the tavern. Footsteps in general make him uneasy, for reasons he can't explain even to himself. He has had to apologize on more than one occasion for overreacting to a servant coming up from behind without any warning. 

Recently, Zelos has started trying to convince his tutors and the leaders of the church to teach him ways to defend himself. He has grown up watching warriors test their skills in the coliseum on the edge of town, and in a way, he envies them. Even when they're standing face to face with a small dragon spitting fire, or a giant wolf baring its fangs as it thirsts for blood, they never let their resolve waver. Rarely can he find any fear or hesitation in the way they carry themselves, in the way they continue to charge onward after being knocked to the ground multiple times.

If someone like that had been with them when his mother was attacked, Zelos sometimes catches himself thinking, she might still be around.

What if he could have been that person?

So far, none of the adults Zelos has spoken to have been particularly welcome to the idea of teaching him to fight. "There is no need to put yourself in harm's way, Chosen One," they all say. "We can always hire more bodyguards if you wish for extra protection."

Zelos knows that they already hire far too many bodyguards, however, and he knows all too well that most of the ones who leave aren't doing so out of choice, but necessity. A corpse can't even hold a sword, after all, much less fight to protect him.

He has never wielded a weapon in his life, but he knows his hands are stained with more blood than any of the criminals rotting away in one of Meltokio's prison cells. And the more the body count in his name rises, the more abandoned spouses and orphaned children of his personal guard glare at him whenever he goes outside. He wishes he could blame them, but he understands their feelings far too well to hate them for it.

More than once, it crosses his mind that this could be the sacrifice he is destined to make: he will never get the one singular, defining moment of heroism that should have accompanied his title, where he gives his life for the sake of the world. Instead, his guilt will chip away at him over and over again, for as long as he lives. If looking at The Chosen with hatred in their eyes gives the people of Tethe'alla the passion to keep living, then Zelos supposes he's saving lives after all. If he were a selfless person, that idea might bring him some comfort.

Unfortunately, Zelos is a selfish person down to his core.

And being hated is  _ exhausting. _

Which is why, despite being refused by every single person he asks, he continues to beg for lessons in basic swordplay.

Days turn into weeks, and the hours continue to flow in a way that makes it impossible, after a while, to know how fast time is passing. His life could be split up into two distinct sections, divided cleanly by his mother’s murder, and if anyone were to ask him for details about when anything happened in the second section, he knows he wouldn’t have an answer. The year between his 12th and 13th birthdays, as far as Zelos is concerned, is a single, colorless entity. 

Sometime around when the last of the leaves are falling from the trees, Zelos finds his walks between the church and his mansion growing longer and longer. At first it’s only because he has stops to make on the way, but before long he finds himself purposely looking for detours, even slowing his steps down ever so slightly to draw them out even a bit more. It isn’t a conscious decision at first, but even when Zelos notices what he’s been doing, he makes no efforts to stop it. He realizes how much he’s come to enjoy these precious few moments to himself, moments where he doesn’t need to follow the whims of other people. Moments where he can be “Zelos.”

It’s on one of these long walks around town that he notices the first speck of white. He blinks rapidly, convinced it was either an illusion or simply something caught in his eye, but when his eyes reopen, the speck is not only still there, but has become one of several. 

Zelos knows immediately what he’s seeing, but for a split second, he tries to deny it. Maybe it really  _ was _ an illusion, after all. It could be nothing more than a trick of the light, the sun hitting some raindrops in just the right way to make them shimmer.

But he can no longer deny it when he catches one in his outstretched palm, only for it to melt the second it makes contact with his skin. His eyes widen, and he tries to brush it off, but it’s quickly replaced by more as the snowfall grows heavier and heavier by the second. He glances from side to side, taking note of the snowflakes dusting his shoulders and the front of his ( _ disgustingly red) _ winter coat. Each individual crystal is so small, but with each new one that clings to him, he feels like he’s being held down by their crushing weight, dragging him closer to the ground as they grow heavier,  _ colder. _

Zelos wraps his arms around his chest almost defensively as his entire body is suddenly wracked with harsh shivers. He can see the white clouds of each breath he takes come in short, quick bursts. He doesn’t know if he’s cold, scared, or some mixture of the two, but what he  _ can _ make out amidst the raw panic taking over his thoughts is that the feeling gripping his heart and making it hard to breathe is one he is all too familiar with, even if he hasn’t felt it in months.

He runs.

It isn’t easy, not when he has to carry the weight of an entire corpse on his back. He gasps for air and stumbles more than a few times, and by the time he sees the steps to his home come into view, a thin layer of white is already covering them, as though it’s taunting him. He doesn’t know why he ran home. Home isn’t any safer than the rest of the city. If anything, he’s learned from experience, it’s more dangerous. 

Zelos almost reaches the front door when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees two small bursts of red in one of the bushes. Two red roses, still stubbornly clinging to life, even despite the change in season. Two vibrant, crimson flowers, only standing out more prominently while surrounded by white. 

Zelos doesn’t register at first that he’s fallen to his knees, the trembling in his legs finally causing them to give out. His body feels like it’s freezing over and overheating at the same time, somehow, the chill of early winter fighting a constant battle against the burning behind his eyes and in his throat. He doesn’t even try to fight the strangled sobs wrenching their way out of him, and within moments he feels his shoulders heaving and bile rising in his throat.

Zelos is vaguely aware of someone calling his name and running towards him as he gags, his mind unable to focus on anything besides the sheer  _ terror _ he can’t seem to shake. For just a moment, he isn’t 13 years old and sobbing in his front yard, but 12 years old and watching his mother’s blood melt any snow it touches, too stunned to shed a single tear as she whispers her last words into his ear. Sebastian's hand on his shoulder doesn't belong to his loyal butler, but a fresh corpse, which is why he slaps it away without hesitation. Haven’t the dead taken  _ enough  _ from him? Can’t they at least keep their hands off of him?

The next several minutes are a blur after that, but when Zelos calms down enough to process his surroundings, he’s sitting on the couch, a blanket draped loosely over his shoulders as he stares down a cup of tea. Sebastian is standing dutifully at the edge of the room, still maintaining all the composure of a professional servant, but unable to fully mask his concern as he continues stealing glances at his young master. He does seem to relax a bit when he sees Zelos looking back at him, but he doesn’t say a word. After what he just witnessed, Zelos assumes, he probably doesn’t know how to start the conversation. His silence is most likely out of consideration for Zelos as well, and while Zelos does appreciate the gesture, a small part of him wishes for actual  _ comfort _ . 

He reads about it in novels all the time. In familes born not out of necessity, but of  _ love _ , there’s always a smiling face or a comforting hand ready and waiting to help whenever things get difficult. There’s a father, swearing to protect the people he cares about, and never running away. There’s a mother, always lending her shoulder to cry on and assuring her family that, if nothing else, they are  _ wanted. _ There’s a sibling, waiting for just the right moment to lighten the mood with some well-intentioned teasing. There’s a place to return to, one that’s always safe.

There’s a  _ home _ .

Zelos often catches himself wondering what that would be like. Sometimes, he considers asking Sebastian, by far the servant that spends the most time by his side. But he always decides against it, because he knows full well that if he were to suddenly lose his money and status, there would be nothing stopping his butler from walking away in search of a better opportunity. There was nothing “unconditional” about their relationship, and even if Sebastian  _ were  _ to act like a father, Zelos doesn’t think he would be able to forget that fact long enough to play along.

And so he sits in silence for another minute or two, sipping at his tea both to wash out the taste of his own vomit and to get rid of the chill that has settled itself deep inside his bones. He achieves his first goal, but makes minimal progress on the second. A couple times, he glances out the window facing the garden, only to quickly look away as soon as he’s confirmed that, no, the snow hasn’t disappeared. It’s only continuing to pile up, and at its current rate, it won’t be long before it covers the grass completely, blanketing every surface in white. It will definitely still be there in an hour, in a day, possibly even a week. And whether he likes it or not, Zelos left his time for mourning behind a long time ago. He’s been  _ fine _ for months now, which means that he will  _ always _ be fine. Even if that isn’t true internally, he needs to let everyone else believe it. He isn’t some pathetic, common child. He is the  _ Chosen _ . And he needs to act like it, no matter what it takes.

At long last, Zelos sets his tea cup down and speaks, without looking up at Sebastian. His voice is still hoarse from crying, but he at least manages to keep it steady.

“I wonder if I should consider doing some sort of pilgrimage soon, visit other branches of the church. I hear Altamira is nice this time of year.”

If Sebastian notices his intentions, he doesn’t say a word. 

He never does.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Drowning Years

Zelos knows what it’s like to be watched. He has  _ always  _ been in the public eye, from the moment of his birth to the present day, and at 15 years old, the feeling of a stranger’s eyes on him from a distance have not only stopped bothering him, he doesn’t even register them anymore. After spending his entire childhood under scrutiny, he doesn’t know how to even  _ imagine _ living his life any other way, so he stops trying.

But while the novelty of simply being admired has long worn off, the  _ nature  _ of the attention he’s been receiving as of late is… different, somehow. Zelos is perceptive when it comes to subtle shifts in a person’s behavior-- he has to be, not just as a person of noble status who is required to regularly interact with high society with no less than perfect manners, but as someone far too accustomed to being stabbed in the back by people he trusts, both figuratively and very nearly literally. It’s almost amusing to him, taking an extra glance back at devout members of the church who had been singing his praises mere moments ago, and watching their expressions contort in an instant from faux-admiration to all-too-genuine hatred and anger. It fascinates him, in a way, how confident in their ability to sugarcoat their true intentions they are. 

Perhaps that’s why it’s so confusing when, at some point, those hidden intentions start to change, though they never disappear completely. His mother’s death three years earlier, it seemed, had not only forced him to grow up emotionally, but physically as well. Zelos had always been small for his age, shorter than the girls he was forced to dance with at parties and extremely self-conscious about the complete lack of muscle on his arms, but a sudden growth spurt at around 13 years old leaves him with longer limbs than he (or his tailors) know what to do with and a voice gradually deepening into something unrecognizable. He’s begun to let his hair grow out as well, not because he thinks it looks nice, but because avoiding haircuts means avoiding a potential blade against his throat.

Every single day, he moves further away in appearance from the scared little boy he used to be. Maybe not to himself, when he looks into the mirror and sees dull eyes and a plastic smile that are too well-practiced to ever change, but the people of Tethe'alla are, without a doubt, beginning to see him as a young adult. And  _ nowhere _ is this more evident than when he’s speaking with the women of Meltokio. 

In the beginning, the changes are subtle: their gazes linger on him just a bit longer than they used to. Everything he says is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. When they ask him to dance at parties, there’s a new edge of desperation in their voices, and they pull him ever so slightly closer than they used to. They don’t come right out and explain their intentions at first, but they don’t need to. Zelos is 15 years old, but he’s no longer a child. He’s not naive, and he  _ certainly  _ isn’t stupid.

He knows lust when he sees it.

How could he not, growing up in a house where both of his parents were having affairs with other people? Zelos doesn’t have many memories of his father, but he does know that the only times he seemed even remotely happy to be alive were when Seles’s mother, a “very good friend of his,” waltzed through their door with a bottle of wine in her hands and a seductive smile that couldn’t have made her intentions any more clear. His mother wasn’t nearly as open about admiring other people, and Zelos never finds out for sure whether she had an official lover on the side-- some truths, Zelos fully believes, are better left buried alongside the dead-- but it was hard not to pick up on the hint of longing in her eyes during her long hours of gazing out the window. 

So, yes, of course Zelos knows what the girls whispering to each other in groups whenever he turns a corner are after. But having those looks set upon  _ him _ is something he wasn’t entirely prepared for. Surely, they must know how impossible it is for him to provide them with a happy, peaceful life. The fact that the Chosen’s marriage partner is decided by the church is common knowledge, after all, and the ceremony that traditionally follows the announcement of their identity is one of the most elaborate Tethe’alla has to offer. Their feelings play no role in his fate.

Still, Zelos read the same stories as they most likely did growing up, the ones where true love conquers all, where the evil force keeping two star crossed lovers apart can be toppled in an instant with enough effort. He does, to a certain extent, understand where those delusions might have come from. Those fairy tales painted a picture of a world where good intentions, a strong will, and a true love’s kiss were enough to grasp a happy ending. It’s only natural that a child with no knowledge of the real world would accept those fantasies as reality, and if Zelos had been born as anyone else, he would most likely feel the same way.

The only difference is, he was never allowed to believe them.

He thinks his parents may have, once. There may have been a time after Cruxis arranged their marriage where they thought they could make things work, that they could pretend their marriage didn’t mean anything, and once they forced out the child that was required of them, they could go back to living in their dream worlds. He has to believe that his father wasn’t  _ always _ prepared to take his own life just to save face, that his mother once wanted something more out of life than constant headaches and a son she didn’t ask for. Zelos has known for years that he was the nail in the coffin of their misfortune; has come to accept it, even. But a small part of him can’t help but wonder: would it have hurt them less to have never held that hope in the first place? Or should he envy them for ever having a chance to believe in a just world?

His parents hadn’t spent enough time with him to teach him many important life lessons, but watching them had been a sufficient warning against wanting anything more than he had already been promised. Thanks to them, he knows that he will never,  _ can  _ never, allow himself to fall in love.

He quickly forgets the name of the first girl that works up the courage to tell him point blank how she feels. He doesn’t remember the exact words she used, and he doesn’t know how, exactly, he tried to turn her down without letting her find out how shaken he was by the whole situation. 

What he  _ does  _ remember is the way his heart skips a beat when she tells him how much she wants him, the whole idea of being wanted at all so entirely foreign to him that for a split second, he has the terrible, unprompted thought that maybe he  _ should  _ try and reciprocate the feelings of this girl he’s never met.

But then  _ those words _ , those two little words that define everything Zelos is and everything he ever will be, come out of her mouth, dripping with a false sweetness that overpowers whatever else she’s trying to say. Just like that, the illusion is shattered, just as quickly as it had formed in the first place. Any of the warmth that had settled into his chest is immediately replaced with the same emptiness he’s grown accustomed to, the one that makes him question whether he has a heart at all.

And maybe he’s right about that after all, because he knows that what he does next can only be considered heartless.

Or, at least, it would be, if he didn’t see the same flicker of cruel satisfaction in her eyes that he’s sure is reflected in his own when he kisses her, messy and rough with inexperience, but still more human contact than Zelos has had in years. She hadn’t wanted anything deeper than whatever this is in the first place, so Zelos doesn’t feel any guilt at all when he brings her to a cramped alleyway and pushes her up against the wall before kissing her again, knowing full well that this is the first and last time he will ever hold her like this. He’s only giving her what she wants, after all, when he unbuttons her blouse and touches her chest, clumsily seeking the spots that will elicit the biggest reaction. His role in her life ends the second he removes his hand from between her legs, whispers of “chosen one” coming out in short pants as she comes down from the high she had been chasing.

He knows this. She knows this. And as he finds out when another girl approaches him only a few days later, parting from a pack of whispering girls around his age to “request his presence” at her family’s manor for tea, all of her friends know this, too.

He doesn’t try to prove them wrong.

If anything, he’s eager to let them know how right they are.

He starts returning home later and later into the night, most of his hair spilling out of the low ponytail he had left with and the top few buttons of his dress shirt still undone. Sometimes Sebastian will look at him with an expression that suggests he wants to say something, but ever the faithful servant, all he does is offer a quick greeting before asking Zelos if he would like a bath prepared before he returns to his room for the night. Zelos always accepts, and the baths are always long enough that the water is noticeably cooler at the end, but not long enough for Zelos to scrub away the filth he knows must be there, even though he can't see it under the bright pink glow of skin nearly rubbed raw. 

Even after returning to his bedroom, he often finds himself scratching at his arms hard enough to leave angry red lines that remain visible for days afterwards. He isn't sure why he does it, and sometimes, he doesn't even  _ realize  _ he's doing it until the damage has already been done. Maybe it's a desire to claw his way out of his own skin, or maybe it's an unconscious alternative to dwelling on how he comes home every night feeling less and less satisfied. Zelos doesn't know. He just knows that it grounds him, in its own ugly, twisted way, brings him crashing back down to reality as a punishment for thinking he could ever fly away from it all in the first place.

It reaches a point where he begins refusing to leave the house without  _ something  _ covering his arms, because even he knows his thinly-veiled excuses about angering a cat he found in the marketplace will only work so many times. Zelos is grateful that, if nothing else, the girls he takes to bed are never looking at him closely enough to question the marks on his skin. 

Zelos knows this, because he never sees them looking  _ at _ him, only straight through him. Their heads are permanently up in the clouds, and their eyes are forever fixed on an idealized version of the Chosen that could never hope to exist in reality. Zelos isn't sure what exactly they see when they close their eyes and scream in ecstasy, and he isn't sure if he wants to know at all. Because for that one intense, glorious moment, he can pretend that he truly is the false idol they pray to every night. He can pretend that  _ he  _ is the one who is loved.

Maybe one day, Zelos thinks when he lays alone in bed after a long night of pretending he knows what love is in the first place, he'll be able to see himself that way, too.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have about 7 or 8 chapters planned for this story so far, and I knew upfront that this would be the chapter I'd have the strongest personal connection to. While it's tweaked to fit Zelos's circumstances and exaggerated a bit, the idea behind it is based almost entirely on my experiences dealing with the death of one of my own parents at 12 years old, so this was actually pretty cathartic to write. Turns out combining personal traumas with tragic characters you can somewhat relate to makes for good inspiration, who knew?


End file.
